


The Boyfriend Paradox

by japansace



Series: The Boyfriend Series [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Universe, Fluff, Jealousy, Language Kink, M/M, The Summer of Mutual Pining, Victor "Extra" Nikiforov strikes again, dramatic irony: the fic, it's healthy though don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13764840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/japansace/pseuds/japansace
Summary: For some inexplicable reason, Yuuri speaks Russian.Now, as everyone knows, there are only two viable reasons why anyone ever learns a foreign language:1. For school.2. To impress a foreign love interest.And Victor can’t quite bring himself to believe that Yuuri would be at all studious enough to hunt down Russian classes inDetroitof all places.(Or: Victor gets jealous of a boyfriend that doesn’t exist.)





	The Boyfriend Paradox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crossroadswrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadswrite/gifts).



> I started this like a month ago, but mama didn't raise no quitter.
> 
> This is a gift for crossroadswrite, because the concept of Yuuri learning Russian via _the thirst _alone in her fic On Growing; (which is amazing btw; please go read it) had me so inspired. So it’s for you, darling~!__

There are very few moments in Victor Nikiforov’s recallable memory where he can truly say his life has flashed before his eyes. Key instances include: Yakov dropping in on him for a surprise visit the morning after a one-night stand, the time he fell out of his first attempted quad axel, turned around and disoriented on the ice for the first time in years, and literally any occasion in which his mothers believe he hasn’t called recently enough.

But _this—_

“So Yurio got assigned to Rostelecom too, huh?”

Yuuri is currently holding a stretch that should be illegal, propped up against the wall, one foot against the ground but the other pointed at the ceiling in a perfect split, head down but strong arms holding him there like it’s effortless.

“Uh—ah, yes. Yes, he just read the assignments.” Victor breathes once. “But I was just talking on the phone in Russian. How do you know this?”

Yuuri’s expression flickers, squinting at his hands as though displeased with himself. Delicately, his right leg folds inwards against the wall until he’s back on two feet again, righting his posture but keeping his gaze decidedly on the floor.

“Um…” Yuuri won’t look at him. “I know… a little Russian. You know… just enough.”

This is approximately when Victor’s entire existence blurs past his eyes with the speed of the bullet train, leaving him to wonder how and why and _when_ —

“Have you understood… _all_ of my conversations?” Because Victor will surely die the most dramatic of deaths if Yuuri has overheard him ranting and raving about just how _wonderful_ and _beautiful_ and _talented_ he is.

“Um—“ _He still won’t look._ “I… I try not to eavesdrop—”

So that’s it then. This is how Victor Nikiforov dies. 

“—but I’m not that good at it, really. I took a Russian minor in college, but I’m nowhere near fluent.”

So this is how Victor Nikiforov dies…? Maybe?

“Like…” Victor tries to find the words. “Like what percentage of what I say do you understand, exactly?”

“In Russian?” Yuuri quantifies, fiddling with his fingers. “Um… like… forty percent? Forty-five?”

Victor exhales, slowly. Forty-five. That’s a number he can deal with.

“Okay.” So he’s _mostly_ safe. Fifty-five percent safe. That’s more than half! He can work with more than half. “But why didn’t you tell me, Yuuri?”

He fidgets with his hair, trying to push it back behind his ears only for it to spring forward. “Because… Because it’s embarrassing.”

Victor takes a step towards him. “Why would it be embarrassing?”

Yuuri looks at him then, all at once. “Because it just _is_!” He startles, as though only then recognizing his actions for his own. “Uh, um, I finished my cool-down stretches, so I’m going to head back now.” He throws his duffle over his shoulder and makes a hasty exit out of the ballet studio. “So bye!”

It shouldn’t bother Victor. It really shouldn’t. Yuuri is entitled to his privacy, after all. And yet, it _irks_ him, because _what could be so embarrassing_?

He stews on it as he walks back to the onsen, purposefully slow, examining the town in a new light and trying to decipher what about this place would inspire Yuuri to minor in something as niche and borderline esoteric as Russian.

But Yuuri is an enigma, constantly changing, constantly reorganizing, constantly hiding the skeletons in his closet further and further back whenever he fears someone is looking too closely into him.

Victor wants to break that code. _Permanently._

So, like any good codebreaker, he starts with the obvious:

For some inexplicable reason, Yuuri speaks Russian.

Now, as everyone knows, there are only two viable reasons why anyone ever learns a foreign language:

1\. For school.

2\. To impress a foreign love interest.

And Victor can’t quite bring himself to believe that Yuuri would be at all studious enough to hunt down Russian classes in _Detroit_ of all places.

Which means, then, that he is only left with one horrifying option:

Yuuri Katsuki had—or has—a Russian boyfriend.

That might be assuming a lot about Yuuri’s character—mainly his sexuality—and yet, it’s the only explanation. (Not to say, of course, that Yuuri might be _straight_ , because Victor has _eyes_ , thank you, but it might be slightly more complicated than that.)

Somehow though, a Russian boyfriend is the only thing that comes to mind when Victor thinks about who Yuuri might be interested in.

Where is said boyfriend though?

Clearly, this requires investigation. For _science._ Because he is a good and caring coach that takes a healthy amount of interest in the well-being of his student.

(Yes, good, that’ll do.)

It is this very normal and totally not stalker-y amount of concern that compels him to look up the number of one Phichit Chulanont—after Yuuri is sleeping, of course, and he’s _checked_ —to inquire as to the whereabouts of this particular gentleman.

It rings a couple of times—which is just enough time for Victor to panic enough to lose his filter—and instead of saying “hello” like a sensible person, the first thing that ends up coming out of his mouth is “Does Yuuri have a Russian boyfriend?”

Victor, for the life of him, can’t imagine why Phichit Chulanont would be laughing at a time like this. Has he missed a joke? Does “boyfriend” mean something else in Thai?

“Oh my god,” Phichit chokes between laughter that borders on sobs.

Victor can relate.

“Please, just tell me.” Victor recognizes that he’s starting to pace, but he can’t stop himself. “He—he knows Russian. Well, not like _knows_ knows, but he took enough Russian in college to get a minor in it. A _minor._ That’s not normal, Phichit. People don’t just take Russian, Phichit. What does it _mean,_ Phichit?”

Phichit really does sound like he’s breaking down now, and Victor can feel himself starting to lose it.

“Why—?” Phichit coughs, recollects. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“I _did_ ,” Victor bemoans. “But he wouldn’t tell me. Said it was ‘embarrassing.’” He air-quotes despite no one being there to witness it.

“Well, you’ll just have to try harder,” Phichit tells him. “Yuuri is a very private person, but I’m sure he’ll come around at some point—especially if it’s you. He’s always liked you.”

Victor’s heart beats hard, once, in his chest. “What do you mean by—?”

“Whoops, gotta go.” And like the traitor he is, he hangs up.

So then. It’s a lonely party for one, is it?

He can’t ask Yuuri straight out. He’s tried that. “No comment,” Yuuri had said like an absolute fucking pro. Why is it he’s a savant at the most inconvenient moments? Victor will never know.

He’ll just have to be subtler then.

“ _Yuu_ ri~!” It’s Yuuri #3 today. A vintage. Aged to perfection if Victor does say so himself. It’s a Yuuri that says, “I’m trying hard to get your attention but not _too hard_.” And now’s the perfect time to break it out.

“Hmm?” Yuuri looks up at him from his skates— _bingo_ —mouth already niggling at his lips, pink blossoming under his teeth into petals of crimson. “What is it?”

Victor gestures vaguely behind him as though the subject he’s yet to bring up is just down the hall. “I was just talking to my rinkmate. You know Georgi…? Well, he’s having girlfriend problems. I was wondering if you had any advice on how to interact with Russian girls—or Russians at all, really.”

Yuuri stands, taps his toepick on the ground a few times— _tick, tick, tick—_ to get his foot into proper positioning. “Wouldn’t you know better than me?” Yuuri expertly eludes, eyes on the laces of his boot. They might need tightening. Victor would happily volunteer, but he’s a man on a mission.

“Yes, but _I’m_ Russian,” Victor says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world (which it is.) “How can I know how to navigate myself?”

“Mm,” Yuuri observes dryly, patting him on the shoulder, and _what even is happening_? “I’m sure you’ll figure it out someday.”

Victor blinks at Yuuri as he takes to the ice, gliding to the center as though he hasn’t left Victor with a thousand burning questions, the most prominent being _what the actual hell_?

He thinks he was just given… advice? If it can qualify as such? It might actually have been good advice if Victor’s problem was anything more than a hypothetical scenario.

Well then. Time to play hardball.

“Yuu _ri_ ,” Victor chides, stern, the “ri” popping on his tongue like a cold snap. It’s in his coach voice—something he’s shocked to find he actually has—and delivered quietly. So he’ll _listen._

Yuuri, of course, goes rigid at this. That’s the power of Yuuri #78. “Yes…?”

Victor drops into a seat beside him before where they’re to have dinner that night. “You haven’t told me _nearly_ enough about you. As your coach, I can’t stand for this.” He thinks he hears Mari snort from the kitchen but elects to gracefully ignore it.

“Uh… Nn.” It’s that Japanese thing—that thing when Yuuri doesn’t necessarily have anything to say but feels the need to demonstrate he’s paying attention anyway.

Victor will take it. “Good. Why don’t you tell me about your time in college?”

Yuuri tilts his head at him. “Why that specifically?”

 _Oh, I’m sorry. Are you the coach?_ Victor bites back, because now is not the time to be Yakov. “Just wondering about your training regime,” Victor supplies, and yes, that seems believable. “You must have been quite busy, going to class, training, traveling to competitions, dating, sightseeing—“

“What was that?”

“Sightseeing?”

“No… Before that.”

“Oh.” Victor dusts off his best press smile. “Dating. Surely you did your fair share of that in college…? Or have all those Hollywood movies lied to me?”

“Well…” Yuuri fidgets with his chopsticks, moving them a little to the left so that they’re more parallel with the plate. “I didn’t… do much of that.”

“Is that right?” Victor bumps the table with his knee, knocking the chopsticks off-kilter once more purely out of spite. “You must have had a steady relationship throughout then. Tell me a little about that.”

“No—“ Yuuri swallows, stares down at his hands. “No comment.”

“Yuuuu _ri_ —“

“Dinner!” Yuuri’s mother lilts, emerging from the back with a bowl of rice in one hand and pot of miso in the other. The rest of his family is not far behind, so Victor wisely tucks the conversation away in his pocket for the next available opportunity.

Because he’s not _nearly_ through with this interrogation. He’ll get his confession yet.

Except days go by. Then _weeks._ He doesn’t mean for it to go on that long, but the qualifiers are just around the corner; Victor hardly has the time to play twenty questions.

This is better anyway. The direct approach is always better. Why had Victor forgotten? Ah, that’s right; because Yuuri makes him question literally everything he’s ever known. Ha! Speaking of—

“Y _uuu_ ri~!" 

Yuuri #104 is accompanied by the slam of a door being opened (very effective) and a grin cranked up to unnerve. Surely nothing can outwit _this_ grandmaster plan.

(He hopes.)

“Vi-Victor,” Yuuri greets shakily. He’s got the bedsheet pulled over his head but not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of cover as he looks over something on his laptop. “Can I help you?”

 _You certainly can._ “Yes, I would like to ask you something.”

Yuuri pulls his earbuds out. “Okay…?”

And here it is. The moment of truth.

Victor takes a deep breath.

“Do you, Yuuri Katsuki—“ Because that’s important in Victor’s mind. “—have a Russian boyfriend?”

Yuuri stares at him. It’s not a good sign.

“ _A what_?” Yuuri screeches at a pitch previously only known to dogs.

“You know, a—“ Victor rolls his wrist, pantomiming something that doesn’t quite exist yet. “—a boyfriend. That’s Russian. Someone you would learn Russian for…?”

Yuuri promptly pulls the blanket down on his head, the fabric straining at the seams. “Is this about my Russian minor?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Victor breathes out, exasperated. “What else would it be about?”

“How have you jumped from ‘Russian minor’ to ‘Russian boyfriend’?”

“I don’t know! It just—“ _Makes sense._ In Victor’s head at least. That’s got to count for something, right? “So? Do you?" 

“ _No_!”

Victor hums, low and incredulous. “That’s exactly what someone with a Russian boyfriend would say.”

Yuuri looks at him then like he’s arguing with an actual five-year-old. “Yeah? And what would someone _without_ a Russian boyfriend say?" 

“Something more intelligent, I’m sure.”

“You—“ Yuuri stops. Sighs. “There’s no Russian boyfriend.”

“Oh…?" 

“There’s _not_.”

“Sure.”

“Victor—“

“There must be _someone_. You can tell me. So just tell me, Yuuri! Who is the Russian boyfriend? _Who_?”

“The Russian boyfriend is _you_!”

Oh, so _this_ is how Victor Nikiforov dies.

“U-uh, I mean—!” Yuuri’s hands scrabble for purchase where there is none. “I—there really is no Russian boyfriend, I swear! Not… not yet anyway. I learned Russian because of _you._ Because I liked _you_.” At Victor’s sharp inhale, Yuuri hastens to tack on, “Your skating, I mean! I liked your skating! But—but you already knew that of course…”

Not to this degree, he didn’t. 

Victor stalks towards the bed, hesitant. “So—“ A proprietary hand on the mattress. “—it was all for me?”

“Don’t…” Yuuri’s eyes skitter towards the wall. “Don’t say it like that… It sounds weird like that.”

But Victor’s somewhere else entirely. “I’m the Russian boyfriend,” he says quietly, reverently. He looks at Yuuri then, all at once. “ _I’m_ the Russian boyfriend.”

“Sure…?” Yuuri supposes. “I mean, like… not literally. Figuratively. Symbolically…? One of those, anyway.”

Victor promptly drops on the bed before Yuuri’s feet like he’s been mortally wounded. “Oh… Oh, I see.”  
  
“Seriously, Victor,” Yuuri murmurs, and suddenly he’s running his hand through Victor’s hair, and _ah_ , that feels nice, “what made you think I had a secret boyfriend?”

“ _Because_ ,” Victor says, petulant, “no one just _learns_ Russian. There had to be a reason.”

Yuuri falls quiet, but his hand keeps stroking, keeps petting.

Then he speaks:

“They didn’t translate everything, you know?”

“Hmm?” Victor strains to look at him, not daring to lift his head for fear it’ll dissuade Yuuri from doing whatever it is that he is doing. “Know what?”

“Your interviews.” Yuuri sounds wistful. “What you said on TV… in magazines… Stuff like that. They couldn’t catch every word you said, and even when they did, they usually only bothered to translate it into English. Plus, they didn’t capture the nuances. Those were very important to me. So I thought—“ He chuckles wryly. “Twelve-year-old me thought to check out some books and scour the internet for ‘beginner’s guides to the Russian language.’” Victor thinks he sees Yuuri wrinkle his nose. “They weren’t very good, back then. Japanese to Russian, Russian to Japanese… They’ve improved since then. And when I went to America, I tested into a high level Russian class, and I just went with it, because hey, less credits I had to pay for, right?”

Yuuri pauses, thoughtful, his hand embedded deeply into Victor’s hair. “I liked it. A lot. Being able to understand the subtleties no one else could. It’s like I knew you better than the average fan—like it brought me closer to you, somehow.” He nearly snorts. “Like that time at the Marseilles conference where you muttered, ‘this is bullshit,’ regarding a reporter’s insinuation that your active nightlife might interfere with your skating. I loved that. Our little secret between us…”

Victor loves that too: the concept of it. He loves that little Yuuri felt close to him all the way across the ocean, before he even knew him.

“So that’s why,” Yuuri tells him, conclusively. “That’s why I learned Russian. For my Russian not-boyfriend. There. Now you know.”

Victor lifts his head, level with Yuuri’s stomach. “I like that. I do have one issue with it though.”

Yuuri swallows, tilting back just a touch. “Yes…?”

Victor closes that inch and takes a mile, sitting up to lean over him. “Don’t dismiss the idea of having a Russian boyfriend. I think the matter can be arranged.”

Predictably, Yuuri goes red, a blush sparking along the bridge of his nose and gathering at the tips of his ears, the line of his neck. “Oh, um… Okay…”

“And one more thing,” Victor says, adamant. He feels entirely too self-indulgent, but he can’t quite help himself—not after all that. “I need to hear you say something in Russian.”

“W-why?”

“Just humor me.”

“A-ah… okay…” Yuuri thinks, considers. “Y-ya znayu chto ty kormish Makkachina pod stolom.” He continues, rosier, even, than Victor, “Dumayesh’, ya ne vizhu, no… ya znayu.”

“Yuuuuuuuuri,” Victor whines, and he’s not sure which number Yuuri he’s on at this point, but it’s up there. He’s lost track. “Are you just going to blurt out all my secrets now that you have the chance?”

Yuuri crosses his arms. “Well, you made me tell all _my_ secrets. So it’s revenge.” He glares, halfhearted. “And you really shouldn’t feed Makka scraps from the table. It’s bad for him.”

Victor loves that he calls his dog Makka. He loves that he doesn’t hold back his opinion. He loves that Yuuri learned Russian for him—specifically for him—and that he sounds so beautiful when he speaks it. He loves—

“Ponyal, Vitya?”

_Oh._

_Dangerous._

“Uh—“ Victor chokes, tongue caught between too many Russian phrases that wouldn’t be appropriate here now that he’s viscerally aware of just how likely it is that Yuuri will understand him, berate him for foul language. “Da,” he says, tripping over familiar syllables, crashing into common conjugations. “Da, absolyutno.”

It’ll do.

* * *

[video description: a time lapse of Yuuri at a competition, whispering something into Victor’s ear and then the progression of Victor’s reactionary blush, starting in the face but quickly spreading down the clavicle, dipping lower still past where his tie is cinched tight]

Liked by **phichit-chu** , **crossroadswrite** , and **17,754 others**

 **kingkatsuki** But what did he say???????

_View all 238 comments_

**yuuvicvicyuu** Anyone read lips?

 **yuzuchan** I don’t think it was in English???

 **adamrippsbf** come on, someone’s gotta know

 **phichitstan** Word on the street in Detroit is that Yuuri has a Russian minor… Just throwin’ that out there

 **japansace** Pffffttt, yeah right. Who just learns Russian?

5 HOURS AGO

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don’t know Russian, but I did a fair bit of research, so those parts should be correct. But if you know Russian and see anything truly egregious, let me know.
> 
> You can discern what the Russian means through context clues, but just to be 100% clear, here's a translation guide:
> 
> "Ya znayu chto ty kormish Makkachina pod stolom." = "I know that you feed Makkachin food under the table."  
> "Dumayesh’, ya ne vizhu, no… ya znayu." = "You think I don't see, but... I do."  
> “Ponyal, Vitya?” = "Understand, Vitya?"  
> “Da, absolyutno.” = "Yes, absolutely."
> 
> I hope this is everything you never knew you wanted, Rita.


End file.
